


Otherwise Unmentionable

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Bath Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hotel Sex, Masturbation, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Riding, Rome - Freeform, Slightly drunk sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 13:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11533134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Sent to Rome for a series of meetings with some European counterparts, Alicia amuses herself with the city and its inhabitants—and with Mycroft when he shows up, irritated though he is at having to present a version of Sherrinford's situation to their international allies.





	Otherwise Unmentionable

**Author's Note:**

> This continues my Smallcroft and associates FWB porn series, and as such has glancing references to past encounters, though it should basically also work as a standalone.
> 
> Thanks to Nicola and Lou, as always, for Britpicking and cheerleading. Any remaining mistakes in British vocab and the like are mine, and corrections on that point are welcome.
> 
> I reblog Mycroft/Lindsay Duncan/BBC Sherlock/etc., along with a bunch of other stuff, at [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) if that's your brand of poison.

Edwin was draining a tumbler when she entered the bar, her plainclothes security officers melting into the lobby of the hotel. He lifted an eyebrow as she approached.

“Did you enjoy your free afternoon, my lady?”

“Negroni sbagliato, per favore,” she said to the hovering bartender, who inclined his head before reaching for the vermouth. To Edwin, who wore the face of pinched disgust that only prolonged discussion with continental intelligence services could induce, she said, “Certainly more than you lot did.”

“The lowest of bars.”

“And easily cleared by Santa Maria in Trastevere, if you want tourist tips.”

“Thank you, but no,” Edwin said, folding his napkin into a triangle. “I don't cross rivers unless I have to, be they Thames or Tiber.”

“Trastevere is a lovely walk, Edwin.” Her legs were pleasantly sore, from crossing half the city as well as from winding her way through Anglophone tourists in search of early dinner on the Lungotevere and the Ponte Garibaldi. She took her glass from the bartender with enthusiasm, letting her fingers drag across his as she shifted in her seat. “Grazie, bello.”

The bartender’s brown cheeks colored as Edwin rolled his eyes. “Prego, signora.”

“I'm sure your tail did not think the same, Alicia, amongst all those people.”

“Still too early to be properly busy out, and I'm sure they appreciated it more than skulking outside a meeting room.” The drink was fortifyingly bitter, though sparkling, across her tongue. “I passed several aperitivi places on the way back. Are we supposed to do something for food together, did you all decide?”

“ _We all_ left in weary distaste, as well you know,” Edwin told the wall opposite, as she smirked. “Two days away from London and I want proper food for dinner and then proper sleep.”

“You're no fun.” She took another long sip as a figure in black pinstripes and a red tie stepped into the bar; she wiped the corner of her mouth as the figure faltered. “Speaking of no fun.”

Edwin sneered as Mycroft, eyes narrow and focused on a table, took another step inside.

“Did you travel in that, Holmes?”

His back stiffened at the sound of her voice.

“I took an airplane, the same as the rest of you.”

“Please.” She patted the stool next to hers as Edwin got to his feet. “Gone so soon, sir?”

Edwin slithered past Mycroft with something akin to foul amusement. “I'm not _so_ hard up for company, my lady.” He slapped Mycroft’s shoulder, ignoring the resulting shudder. “Six am for the first informal shakedown, Alicia, and I pray we needn’t meet before then.”

“Don't order any escorts; they're marked up for Englishmen,” she called after his retreating back. Edwin merely waved desultorily as Mycroft took his emptied seat.

“You've put Edwin with escorts in my head, my lady, and I'm not going to thank you for it.”

“Mycroft!” The negroni was burbling at the base of her throat; she leaned in to kiss him, left cheek, right, as the bartender, eyes hooded, approached. Mycroft’s skin was dry and cool beneath her lips, tasting more of recycled plane air than vetiver. “What to drink?”

“Prosecco,” he told the bartender, his voice tight, fingers twitching as if to brush where she'd touched him. “The driest you have. Please.”

“I was thinking aperitivi, or maybe gelato. Or both,” she told him, watching the shifting bones of his face. “Did you eat yet?”

“I haven't eaten all day,” he told his hand, letting his eyelids flicker closed for a moment before wrenching them open again. “Things have a tendency of blowing up when you're only a half day in the office.”

“Ah, I haven't yet been briefed.”

“It's better that way, I assure you.” He nodded his thanks at the bartender as he accepted his prosecco. “Are you running riot around the city instead of working, my lady?” His face twisted further as he drank.

“Only this afternoon.” She smiled against the edge of her glass. “Not my brief, not my circus, and Edwin of course is sore that I managed to wriggle out of the session. Tomorrow I have front-row seats for the Mycroft Holmes show, though.”

He winced and took another swig. “I don't do anything remotely conference-like.”

“Of course not,” she agreed, “which is why it's such an honor to be present for this.”

“I'm going to have to kill several people for forcing this on me at the last moment.” His eyes narrowed. “I'd regret it somewhat if one of them were you, I admit.”

She put both hands in the air and penitently bobbed her head, ignoring the faint sloshing of the world around her. “I had nothing to do with assignments, your highness.”

Mycroft sniffed. “You're already halfway tipsy.”

“And you're drinking on an empty stomach.” She drained the last of the negroni and reached for her water. “Shall I just wait for you to catch up?”

“If you want my company on some perambulation through the city in source of food, my lady, I must tell you that I am in a foul mood and already have a reservation here on the terrace.”

“And so?”

Mycroft looked at the ceiling, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.

“And I can ask that they set another place.”

She swallowed a large mouthful of water, the back of her hand against her lips to stop any startled burst emerging. When she could speak again, she said, “I endure this mess for the fun outside the meeting room, Mycroft. Will you be any fun at all?”

“I genuinely don’t know what you mean by that statement.” He drank as she laughed. “You seem to enjoy my company regardless.”

“I already crossed the city once today.” She stretched her hand out across the bar, smiling as Mycroft leaned nearly imperceptibly toward her. “You'll do.”

* * *

The reservation was not until eight, and in any case Mycroft’s sense of injury at having to present international allies with a sanitized version of the latest improvements to Sherrinford was palpable. While he disappeared upstairs to finish unpacking and stew in his own self-hatred, she went out again, crossing the Piazza della Minerva to watch night claim the Pantheon. The periodic sound of heels and warbling laughter echoing against cobblestone lured her, huddled against the 10-degree air, into a sense of stillness that was not broken until three wary-eyed carabinieri entered the piazza.

When, showered and changed into a short black evening dress, she arrived at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, Mycroft was already seated. He stood as she approached, his eyes lingering on the tight cinch of her waist under silk. His own body was wrapped in pale grey, with a blue tie beneath his waistcoat.

“Please,” she said, shifting her clutch from one hand to the other. “All you manage with that is making me feel old.”

He cleared his throat as they sat.

They did three full courses, watching the glowing cupola of St. Peter’s from between candles and one large patio heater. Mycroft fell into an unnerving persistent chatter somewhere between the antipasti and the primi piatti, eschewing their bread and olive oil in favor of a continually refilled plate of mixed greens as he picked at his ziti.

“Healthy,” she remarked as their waiter cleared away the pasta.

Mycroft flushed, swallowing lettuce. “Hardly,” he said, eyeing the wine glass he'd just refilled. “I can't be expected to eat proper food while so...jittery.”

“I’d blush and be flattered, but I know your chittery nerves aren't for me.”

His mouth tightened. “Mostly not, no.”

Their conversation remained idle gossip and disparaging remarks about colleagues through the rest of the meal. By the time she asked for tiramisu, she was pleasantly full of alcohol, pasta, and lamb. Mycroft, who had eaten half his plate of clams, said nothing as she ordered one dessert and two forks, though he did eat half of the slice, his warm wrist occasionally brushing hers.  

“I have a bottle of limoncello from last night in my suite,” she said as Mycroft took the last bite of tiramisu. “And I want to try whatever their champagne is.”

“You didn't try that last night too?”

“I told you, darling, working abroad is for fun.” She licked her fork clean as Mycroft closed his eyes, basking in the reflected warmth from the candles. “Last night was a friend of one of our hosts, who was tragically sober herself but bribed me with said limoncello.”

Mycroft opened one eye. “Bribed you to do what, my lady representative of Her Majesty?”

“Oh, nothing illegal or unethical, sir.” She prodded his nose with a tine and bit back a sudden wine-induced titter. “At least not in this jurisdiction.”

“That is in no way reassuring,” Mycroft murmured, setting her laughing outright as their waiter approached.

By the time they’d settled the bill and wandered back inside, Mycroft had gone red all around from alcohol, a color she was sure her own tingling face could match. He paused as they reached the hallway.

“I ought to review a few things for tomorrow.”

She dug a sweaty palm into her waist. “Are they waterproof?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“My legs are sore, Mycroft.” She bit her lip as his eyes wandered down to her stockinged thighs before snapping back up to her face. “I took the best suite in the hotel, and it has a jacuzzi tub, and I’m going to sit in that and drink champagne and probably attempt otherwise unmentionable things until I pass out.”

His mouth hung open as she tightened her grip on her clutch.

“‘Otherwise unmentionable—’”

“It’s a big suite, Mycroft. There’s even a sofa in the bathroom if you want to keep your presentation notes dry.” She turned toward the elevator. “I’ll text you.”

His voice floated after her. “Specifics!”

She was still smiling as she entered the suite, kicking her heels off in the entrance hall and removing her phone before tossing her bag onto the red sofa in the sitting room. The first text she sent was strictly logistics—floor, room number. The second was more artistic.

_No incriminating specifics needed if you find that objectionable. Just relaxation._

His reply arrived as she poured a glass of water.

_Twenty minutes._

She'd slid into a dressing gown, ordered champagne, and begun filling the tub by the time Mycroft, in trousers, socks, and shirt with the sleeves rolled, a tablet under one arm, knocked on the door.

“Plausible deniability?”

“Propriety.” He rubbed one bare forearm, fingers splaying across his own skin, as he followed her back through the bedroom and into the bath. “Christ, you weren't lying.” His voice echoed off the marble floor and walls as he perched next to a towel on the edge of the divan.

“It's shockingly comfortable,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the faucets. “My lady friend fell asleep partway through last night on that thing.”

“You didn't even let her in the bed?” Mycroft tsked as he settled deeper into the furniture, burrowing an elbow in the stack of towels. “Dreadful manners.”

“We weren't done yet, Mycroft.”

Before he could reply, there was a second knock at the door. She left Mycroft alone with the water and towels as she went to answer it, where a waiter stood bowing over a tray, two champagne flutes perfectly balanced next to the bucket and bottle.

“Your Bollinger, signora.”

He kept his eyes meticulously away from the glimpses of bare chest visible under her gaping robe as she stepped back to let him in.

“You can open it and leave it on the table.” As he obeyed, the cork popped to sudden silence, and a muted yelp, from the bathroom. “Grazie.”

He accepted her handshake—and the Euro bills crumpled therein—with a demure smile. “Grazie, signora.”

She filled both glasses, her bath-oiled hands slippery around the bottle, before returning to Mycroft, who was wet up to the elbows and standing over the full, bubbling tub with a look of confusion on his face.

“Getting in?” When he blanched, she added, loosening her robe’s belt, “Don't tell me you dropped something in there.”

“No, I just—it smells remarkably like the actual ocean.”

“It should, after all the faff I poured in it.” Her robe fell open a further inch as she leaned toward him. “Take this, before I drop it on you.”

His eyes lingered on the exposed strip of her thigh as he accepted one of the glasses. “Thank you, my lady.”

She put her own glass on the rim of the tub as she slid out of the robe entirely. Mycroft quaffed several mouthfuls of champagne, falling back onto the divan, as she sank into the water up to her neck, positioning her lower back directly against a jet.

“Sweet Christ, yes.”

Mycroft smirked. “Comfortable?”

“I will be shortly.” Her nostrils were full of the clean scent of salt, along with the allegedly “marine” general perfume of the bath oil. The pounding of the jet released some of the twisted soreness from her lower body as she reached for her champagne. “Bless this.”

Mycroft dried his hands against a towel before reaching for his tablet again.

“How pointless will I be if I sit here silently reading?”

“As long as you don't waste any more of my hard-earned money drinking Bollinger like it's water, I don't care what you do.”

The silence stretched companionably, Mycroft flicking through electronic documents as she drank and dozed in the heat, foam, and eddying water. When she came to after about half an hour, several of the candles around the bath had been lit, her glass had been topped off, and Mycroft had dragged the bottle itself in to rest at his feet. She reached for a bar of soap, her breasts hovering close to the surface of the water as Mycroft glanced up from his screen.

“Water must regulate itself,” she murmured, lathering a loofah. Mycroft swallowed and closed the cover over the screen. “Still hot.”

“Yes, it is.” His eyes followed the curve of one breast as she stretched up out of the water to soap her arms. He slid the tablet onto the counter behind him. “Is that a proposition?”

She sunk back down to rinse, water lapping her chin. “Has this entire evening been too subtle for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Work before play.” His fingers pulled awkwardly at the buttons of his shirt as she turned the loofah onto her legs. “I can't believe you haven't already showered once today.”

“Oh, fine.” She tossed the loofah onto the shelf running along the edge of the tub. “This is number three, I think.”

“You _think_?” He rubbed his palms against the open panels of his shirt. “You didn't have to stop; I wasn't complaining.”

“I've already washed my hair once today; you missed that boat.” She sipped the champagne, letting its peach undertones roll anew across her tongue, as Mycroft struggled out of his shirt entirely. “What time is it?”

He hesitated with his hands at his zip. “Eleven oh four.”

“Well, then. Chop-chop.”

She leaned back against the jet again, floating just far enough above the porcelain bottom that it hit her arse and, more crucially, the edge of her cunt. She sighed and arched her back as Mycroft peeled off trousers and pants in one trembling stroke.

“I don't think that particular unmentionable occurred to me until now, my lady,” he said as she slid a hand down to her clit.

“Cocks are so unimaginative with their wanking.”

Mycroft’s was soft between his thighs, bobbing as he stepped into the tub, his glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. Displaced water covered one of her ears as he sat down and left the champagne on the shelf.

“What do you want from me, Alicia?”

She turned her back to him, leaning in to position the stream of water directly onto her clit, and bit down on her lip to stop herself from crying out. Her left leg jerked under the water as she draped her arms over the edge of the tub, where the cool air sent goose pimples running to join the flow of electricity from her cunt.

Mycroft was ungainly, audibly sloshing his way across the tub. His hands were soft nonetheless against her upper back, as were his lips as he mouthed the base of her neck.

“I thought you said your legs were sore,” he murmured, as he began massaging her shoulders.

Cocooned in water, alcohol, and tingling bliss, the marble wall blurring under her half-closed eyelids, her response was a shiver and a long hum. After about two minutes, she could force actual words from her throat.

“Talk to me.”

One of his hands slid beneath the surface, his fingers curling around her waist, as she arched again at a particularly strong kick of water.

“About what?”

“Doesn't matter.” She inhaled roughly as his hand slid further down, his thumb brushing her clit. “Anything.”

His second hand cupped her arse as the first worked between her legs, just below the main thrust of the jet.

“I could tell you how very impregnably secure our oceanic high-security containment facility is.”

She closed her eyes fully, shifting to align the jet between her lips as Mycroft stroked the inside of her thighs. Her throat tightened as her heartbeat increased, sparking delight curling around her spine.

“Try something _true_.” She rolled her head forward, flexing her fingers against porcelain. “Other things in your head.”

The hand around her arse squeezed as his breath stuttered against her neck.

“You don't—want to hear that.”

His half-hard cock prodded the cleft of her arse as he shifted to put two fingers on her clit and one between her breasts and the tub.

“Too filthy?” She smiled as he began stroking a nipple. “Tell me.”

A finger slid inside her, and she clenched around it as a fresh stream of heat, the steadiest yet, rocketed up to her brain.

“My lady.” He thrust in time with the jet’s pulsation. “You are—” he pushed up against her back, her cunt directly against the jet, and she moaned as her mind tripped down the last gasping steps into a flash of oblivion, so that his last word, his lips tickling her ears, was half-obscured “—extraordinary.”

Her eyes slid open only seconds later, blinking away floaters, her cunt aching as she pulled herself away from the jet and Mycroft transferred both his hands to a loose hold on her waist.  His panting echoed around them as she reached for her champagne flute.

“Your dirty talk is perfunctory in the extreme.”

His eyelashes fluttered as she turned to face him, offering him the glass.

“My apologies,” he said, taking a tiny sip. “I wasn't thinking of much of anything.”

“Your cock nearly between my arsecheeks, fingers in my cunt, and you couldn't think of anything?” She swiped back the champagne to drain the glass. “Deplorable, really.”

He stroked her waist, a long soothing sweep across the breadth of her body.

“I find it...hard...to think and fuck at the same time.”

She reached for his cock, standing at nearly full attention against his stomach, and he shuddered beneath the brush of her hand.

“I suppose your brain is rather short on blood at the moment.” She curled two fingers around the head, listening to his sharp intake of breath. “What did you want to do to me? Did you want to drive this—” her fingers dragged down his length, and he moaned and twitched in her grasp “—straight between my thighs?”

His pelvis shifted, his voice a choked whisper. “Yes.”

“Not a bad idea.” She tweaked the base of his cock as he coughed. “But I've already said how relatively _tepid_ I thought this first orgasm was.” She brought her second hand up to his ear and ran a finger along its edge. “Shall I tell you what I think I really want, and you tell me if it sounds interesting to your anxious little friend?”

Mycroft’s tongue flickered as he nodded.

“I'm cross with myself because I don't generally bring any sort of cuffs on international travel.”

He throbbed within her hand, skin blazing alongside the heat of the water.

“But maybe you'd be a good boy and keep your hands nice and quiet if I asked.” She tickled the edge of his chin as he whimpered. “Would you keep them to yourself, for me?”

Mycroft bit his lip.

“While you did what, my lady?”

“Oh, that.” She cupped his balls and felt him go entirely still beneath her. “I think I want to sit on your cock, not unpleasantly thick as it is, and see how much pleasure I can wring out of it until you break.”

His breath left him in a whine, his jaw opening beneath her fingers as she stroked her other hand back up his prick to the head.

“I didn't bring—a condom.”

“I think we both know we’re both clean.” She released him entirely, allowing him to breathe deeply and focus his eyes. “And I would be honestly impressed if you managed to impregnate a postmenopausal woman.”

He shivered. “Nevertheless.”

“Nevertheless.” She stretched out both of her legs again, narrowly avoiding Mycroft’s flank, until her toes broke the surface. “I suspect you won't be surprised to hear that I'm better prepared than you are, even in this.”

His smile was crooked, if still distracted.

“You are otherworldly, Alicia.”

Her name in his partially lust-addled voice drew a twinge through her lower abdomen. She got to her feet, allowing Mycroft to splash out alongside her, puddles spreading across the marble underfoot. He wrapped a towel around her shoulders as she opened the drain.

“Take the champagne into the bedroom,” she said, drying her breasts, as he hovered, still dripping, nearby. He obeyed, a towel slung messily around his waist, as she rifled through her cosmetics bag until she found a foil packet. “Will just the one do?”

“What kind of jumpy little minute-men have you been entertaining around here?” His head appeared around the corner of the doorframe again. “Is that an entire chemist’s supply?”

“It’s actually the only one I bloody have, hence the query. I wasn’t— _what_ —”

Mycroft backed her up against the wall of the bedroom, pushing her towel to the floor alongside his own and sliding the condom from her fingers to toss it back onto the bed. He pressed his mouth to the base of her neck.

“I wanted to see you.” His cock brushed her stomach as he shifted, trailing a kiss down to the top of her breasts, where he hesitated before looking back up at her from under his lashes. Her gut throbbed at the hazy desire in his eyes. “We never see each other all the way nude.” One hand brushed her thigh; she spread her legs and, when he did not move, pushed his fingers further between them. “You’re so very breathtaking.”

The smile spreading across her face had a distinct air of smugness, she was sure. She sighed as he kissed her left breast.

“Is that so?”

He slid two fingers into her, still thickened and slippery from her first orgasm, causing her to moan as she tilted her head back against the wall.

“You have lovely breasts.”

She bit down on her own forearm to stifle a sudden giggle.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” She drew the fingers of one hand through his hair as he kissed her cleavage, his tongue hot against her damp skin. His fingers curled more deeply inside her. “Do you know, I’m rather f—ond—” his mouth closed around a nipple “—of your hands. Also your mouth.”

He rumbled against her chest.

“My hair needs to come down, I think.” He stilled as she pulled one of his hands to her waist. “Will you take the pins out for me?”

He moved slowly, hands drifting to the base of her skull. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“It’s only hair, darling. Look.” She pulled out one pin and offered it to him; it sat, silvery-grey and glittering, in his palm. “Now you.”

His broad hands were warm against her skull, sliding shakily from pin to pin and collecting them in one sweaty palm. She closed her eyes as he worked, exhaling as the last pin was removed and her hair fell through his trembling fingers.

“Oh my God.” His voice was hoarse in her ear. “You’re a miracle.”

She laughed as she opened her eyes, though her voice faded as he kissed behind one ear, the other, under her chin, the fingers of one hand sliding back down toward her cunt. She pushed his forehead gently away, forcing their eyes to meet.

“You want to taste me, boy?”

His cheeks went redder. “Is that not allowed?”

She stepped away from the wall, disentangling him from her, though one of her hands rested across the warm top of his arse. “Bed. Let my poor legs rest.”

His response, as soon as they collapsed onto the white duvet, dodging the divan at the foot of the bed, was to wrap a wrist around her left ankle and begin massaging as the fingers of his right hand tangled in the cloud of her hair.

“Your feet.” He tickled the bottom of her left foot as she squirmed. “They’re tiny.” He kissed her ankle. “Mesmerizing.”

“Please _God_ that tickles.” When he did not stop, she kicked out, lightly, making glancing contact with his nose and startling a laugh from him. “And they’re not that small.”

“They _are_ , really,” he said, returning his hand to her thighs and beginning to massage again, “but so is the rest of you.”

“Five foot six is actually above average height for a British female, but then, you knew that.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh, burying his cheeks between her legs as he whimpered.

“You're an eager little puppy, did you know that?”

His mouth slid within an inch of her cunt. Her muscles tightened around his ears as he breathed against her clit, her arms sprawling across the duvet as he made contact.

His lips were feverish and wet, his kiss-licks interrupted by the occasional trembling, gasping breath, as if this were the first time he had ever tasted her. Her head lolled against the bed, the vaulted fresco ceiling fading in and out of focus above them, her neck and spine hot with electric need as his nose brushed the edge of her clit.

She pushed back down against his sweaty face until, with a heavy throb in her lower abdomen, she came in a short burst of pleasure that lingered alongside his careful massaging of her left foot. Her skin prickled as she took his damp face in both of her hands.

“Better?”

Mycroft kissed her palm, his tongue lazy against her skin.

“Will you?”

She let him wait until her pounding heartbeat had slowed and her lungs could fully expand again before replying.

“Will you behave?”

He swallowed.

“Yes.” When she smiled but did not move, he added, clearing his throat, “Please.”

She sat up, crawling to the edge of the bed as he blinked.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Holmes.”

“Comfortable” was apparently a tight line down what she suspected was the exact middle of the bed, his head atop two stacked pillows, his cock a reddish-purple rod across his lower stomach, the foil packet resting on his lightly furred chest. She let him think as she got up and poured more champagne, watching him watch her. She drank in silence for more than a minute, short sweet sips and long breaths as his slightly unsteady eyes traveled back and forth between her hands around the glass and her breasts. She herself was buzzy, approaching proper drunk if she allowed herself to think about it long enough.

“Tell me what you see.”

He forced his eyes to focus on hers, his voice lurching as she set the flute back down against the dressing table.

“Beauty.”

She tsked; he shifted.

“Really—astonishing, the light of your hair down to your breasts.”

She walked back to the bed, pausing short of his outstretched arm while he groaned softly.

“Knowing how warm your body is, how—how soft your breasts. Like little pillows.”

She hid the beginnings of her smile behind the back of her hand.

“A kind way of saying I have saggy tits—”

“No!” His denial was almost violent; he jerked toward her, to be stopped midlurch by her narrow grin. He fell back against the bed slowly, his limbs twitching as he resettled himself. “That is to say, I _like_ them, I—”

“Mycroft. Look at me.” She did not speak again until he obeyed, his eyes large and dark. “I am indecently amused and aroused by your bizarre attempts at politeness, but I work too fucking hard to be offended by my own age.”

His voice was small as she slid onto the foot of the bed. “They're actually not that saggy.”

“Expert tit examiner that you are.”

“I hate that word.”

She tickled the top of his foot. “Tit.” While he squirmed, she added, “Put the condom on.”

His fingers trembled as he did so, lifting the length of his cock from his stomach to position it correctly. Her cunt tingled as he handled himself, so efficient and yet slightly stunned, as if struggling through water against some outside force of fascination.

When he was sheathed, she nodded at the dark fabric headboard. “You know.”

He took a shuddering breath as he pressed his palms against it, his chest reddening as she straddled his waist until his cock nestled back against her arse. “Oh dear God.”

“It has been less than five seconds,” she murmured, bending to put her lips to his neck. “I haven’t even touched it.”

“I’ve been waiting,” he whispered, as she moved her mouth to the center of his chest, her lips teasing a tuft of coarse hair. “I’m going to die waiting.”

She did not bother to respond as she slowly kissed her way down his torso, moving from right to left and back again, inhaling the remnants of the bath oil and his sweat. He cried out as she slithered back across the tip of his cock to sit astride his knees, pressing her mouth against one hipbone.

“Be careful.” His voice was thick and choked. “Unless you want it to b— _fuck._ ”

She reached without looking to cup one of his taut balls as she kissed the opposite hipbone, pressing a fingertip back toward his entrance.

“Fucking shit.”

“We are tightly drawn tonight, aren’t we?” she asked his navel. His cockhead tickled her. Out of the corner of her eye she watched one of his elbows tense as he shifted his hand. “Do not move.”

“I’m not!” The muscles of his stomach were rigid beneath her attention. “Please, Alicia.”

“You’ve been good so far,” she said, before transferring her mouth to the base of his cock. His bitten-off curse as his prick throbbed sent a rush of delight, partially lust and partially proud amusement, down her own throat. Her lips tickled the condom as she continued. “Can you hold this in my cunt for more than three seconds, or will you pop off like a useless little boy?”

She looked up in time to see his eyes flash, his teeth buried in his bottom lip. He wrenched his mouth open, his pulse fluttering beneath her touch between his legs.

“I c—can.”

She took him, blood-hot even beneath latex, in hand, positioning him a hair’s breadth away from her cunt, pausing to breathe herself and watch the rapid movements of his chest and facial muscles as he fought for composure. He yelped, high-pitched and tumbling, as she slid him an inch inside.

“Fuck off.”

She laughed, breathless, her heart pounding between her breasts, as she stretched around him. “No more, Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh my God.”

She kept her gaze on his hands, bone white with tension against the headboard, as she slid down until he was halfway inside her. The pull of muscle and membrane was tight, threatening to cramp, and her cunt pulsed around the intrusion.

“Good boy,” she said, dimly, her mind already spinning down into the rush of sweet pain below her waist. “Good—” she took him in entirely, and he produced what she thought might be a wail, sharp above her own groan “—good boy.”

For thirty seconds she breathed around him, a warm dildo spiking up toward her womb, her hands wet with sweat against her own thighs. Beneath her he had gone still except for his tomato-red face, which contorted continually in on itself, his half-open eyes shuttling madly back and forth as they attempted to focus.

His hands remained on the headboard.

“Excellent,” she told him, widening her legs to give herself leverage against the duvet as she pulled halfway off. “Well done.”

He moaned as she slid back down onto him, the muscles in her legs flexing, and remained moaning as she began to ride him in earnest, her rhythm smoothing with each stroke. The pull of him within her, focusing all her nerve endings down between her legs and setting the base of her spine aflame, was not enough to knock her gaze away from the fascinating tension of his hands above him, his fingers flexing against the board as if to dig into her skin even from a distance. She looked down to find him staring with overbright eyes at the rise and fall of her thighs.

Her hair stuck to her shoulders and the back of her neck, its wispy strands heavy with sweat. Within her she could feel Mycroft’s cock going even more rigid as his groan increased in volume, and when he spoke, his voice was more than half sob.

“I’m so sorry, my lady, I can’t, please...”

She increased the pace, her leg muscles beginning to protest in earnest, and looked down again into his red face and the water spilling from between his eyelids. Her heart twisted within her chest as she reached out to pull his right hand from the headboard and put it between her breasts.

He sobbed as he came, pulsing within her, his fingertips scrabbling in her sweat. She brought herself off with three rough strokes between her legs, silent as the nerves along her spine exploded in a white wave up to her brain. The world remained bright and soft beneath her closed eyes; she floated in happy near-meditation as she pulled herself off of his softening prick.

When she eventually opened her eyes, she was lying on the duvet with one of Mycroft’s hands in her hair, massaging her scalp as she breathed against his shoulder. His other arm was draped across the curve of her arse, holding her lightly within his reach. His pale eyes were red-rimmed, though calm, as he watched her.

“My lady.”

He loosened his grip around her waist, allowing her to stretch, though she did not roll away.

“It must be past midnight.”

“Yes,” he agreed. The fingers in her hair slid down to her ear and chin, stroking more tentatively. “I should let you sleep in peace.”

“Five thirty wake-up.” Her smile felt half-cracked even to her, loose and overwide on her face. “You did well, Mycroft, in the end.”

He blushed. “You certainly shagged the nerves out of me.”

“As intended.”

The kiss he pressed to the top of her head startled her, though she managed to keep her face sleepily serene.

“Thank you, Alicia,” he whispered into her hair.

“Certainly.”

His lips grazed her ear. “I’ll bring a water glass back to you on my way out.”

“Bastard.” She pinched his arm, lightly, her laughter burbling up from the depths of her chest. “Go on, then.”

They lay in comfortable silence for several minutes more first.

**Author's Note:**

> The hotel is roughly inspired by the [Grand Hotel de le Minerve](http://www.grandhoteldelaminerve.com/suite-stendhal-hotel-5-stars-luxury-in-rome.htm), right near the Pantheon (link goes to their specific luxury suite I used as a rough guide)
> 
> Alicia's initial drink, the [negroni sbagliato](http://imbibemagazine.com/negroni-sbagliato/), substitutes sparkling wine for gin. ["Aperitivi"](http://www.emikodavies.com/blog/italian-table-talk-the-aperitivo/) refers to the light-food-and-drink deal you can find in Italy.
> 
> [Santa Maria in Trastevere](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Maria_in_Trastevere), and the [Trastevere neighborhood](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trastevere) in general, are, for those unfamiliar with Rome, indeed across the Tiber, south of the Vatican, and tend to attract decent nightlife among tourists


End file.
